Olio

I work one or two crossword puzzles every day. You soon learn from doing that many puzzles that certain clues will appear in almost every puzzle you do. For example, a three letter name for “Woody’s ex” is always “Mia.” And so it goes. For a four letter word meaning, “A mix;” the word is always “olio.” My blog posting this week is a mix of a number of topics, it’s an olio.

Early Counts

            Since I arrived here in 2009 there have been three “standing” counts – everyman at the foot of their bed, standing, electronics all off. There are standing counts at 11:30 a.m., 6:00 p.m., and 10:00 p.m. At night, there are bed check counts at midnight and 3:00 a.m. Then, at shift change, there is a bed check count (all men on or in their beds) at 5:45 a.m.

            A week ago, a memo came out from the warden which explained, in part, that department directives require all “counts” between 5:30 a.m. and 9:30 p.m. to be standing counts. Apparently, LCC has been out of compliance for years!

            Starting Monday, February 3^rd at 5:45 a.m., the lights will come on, a whistle will blow, and everyone will assemble for a standing count. Guys’ll bitch and moan – it’s the nature of the place – and then drag themselves back to the rack to sleep until 8:00 a.m. (bed areas must be made and cleaned up). Later that day – at 9:30 p.m. instead of 10:00 we’ll assemble for evening standing count. Then lights – and noise – will lower at 10:00 instead of 10:30.

            Change never goes over well inside a prison. But, this one should be no big deal.

 The “Race” Debate

            I had words with a member of NOI the other morning over – of all things – the school’s African American History quiz and contest. Every February, as part of “African American History” month, the LCC school sponsors a history quiz. The top three scores are presented dictionaries by the school and recognized in the school monthly newsletter. Since 2006 the quiz has been called “African American History.” Of course, since 2006, the aide responsible for running the quiz was an African American teacher’s aide. He was caught up in the great December computer caper and transferred out. Time was running short and the quiz was in danger of not getting out. The principal – my boss – asked me to take the quiz on, which I did. And that’s what led to …

            “No white man can truly understand my people’s history.” Say what? I’m not sure what pissed me off more, him standing in the dayroom spouting his ignorant claptrap or his diatribe on our chalk board. “This quiz is an afront [sic] to Africans like me. We aren’t African Americans!!”

            Not one to back away from a battle with a half-wit, I said, “Hey Socrates, if you’re going to write a political epistle, at least spell your words correctly. It’s a-f-f-r-o-n-t.” I then told him I drafted the quiz. “But you don’t know what we’ve been through. You can’t be responsible and sympathetic to our plight.”

            “Really? What do you know about what it means to be Armenian, or Jewish, or Scotch? Can you have empathy for the Chinese or Italian experience in America? Should I, as a white tutor, only help ‘my kind’?” The dayroom was silent as I lit into him about ignorance and race-baiting. Then it was over; he walked away less sure of the stupid position he espoused.

            And that’s one of the problems with prison; it’s a toxic stew of uneducated, ignorant crap that feeds their obsessive self-pitying. Prison sucks. It is demeaning and counter-productive. But – and this is an important but – most of us did the crimes that landed us here. We aren’t innocent. We did stupid – and in some cases horrible – things. That doesn’t make the system less insane, but it should cause you to focus on real improvement, real education and job skills, not some chin-rubbing wanna-be philosophizing.

 Mental Health Continued

            Last Sunday night, the CBS News show “60 Minutes” interviewed Virginia State Senator Creigh Deeds. Deeds described in great detail his son’s mental health issues and the tragic incident that unfolded at the family farm Thanksgiving weekend. Deeds said society doesn’t treat mental health like cancer or heart disease (he’s right). He then talked about the bill he’s proposed in the Virginia legislature to allow mentally ill people to be held 24 hours (instead of the current 6 hours) to find available bed space for in-patient treatment.

            The bill seems to be a common sense approach to a tragic and glaring problem in Virginia’s mental health umbrella. So why then does the Virginia Sheriff’s Association oppose it?

            “We’ll have to babysit ‘those’ people for 24 hours,” the VSA spokesman said. “It’ll cost $4.5 million for the extra manpower.” Really? So the Commonwealth is willing to spend $1.25 billion each year on prisons, a system where over 50% of the inmates suffer from diagnosed mental illnesses. Holding mentally ill people in prison, pumping them full of psychotropic drugs so they spend the days like zombies, that’s a good use of a billion dollars plus. But $4 ½ million, whoa we can’t afford that. Kind of makes you wonder who really is crazy.

 Peter Seeger RIP

            On January 28^th, folk singer Pete Singer passed away at the age of 94. Seeger was part of a great collection of men and women who wrote and sang beautiful folk songs – songs of everyday people – that meant something. “Where have all the flowers gone?” That was Pete Seeger.

            He sang with Woody Guthrie. He sang for civil rights, and social equality, and cleaning his beloved Hudson River. He abhorred violence and militarism, yet during the Second World War he enlisted. Hitler and totalitarianism of the Fascists had to be stopped.

            In his twenties, Seeger joined the American Communist Party. Then he saw that Stalin and the Soviets were as bad as Hitler and the Nazis. He quit the party. America in the ‘50’s wasn’t so forgiving. He was blacklisted and spied on by Hoover’s FBI. He never quit smiling, he never quit singing.

            One of my favorite Seeger stories involved seeing him in concert at Vassar College during my high school days (1976 or ’77). Seeger was at the Poughkeepsie, New York School (my hometown back then) and he began to sing his song “Goodnight Irene.” He told the audience, “You can sing any song lyric to this tune.” Even now, almost 40 years later I find myself singing dozens of songs to the tune of “Goodnight Irene.”

            Pete Seeger wanted people to know he wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But as the character William Wallace said in “Braveheart,” “Every man dies, but not every may lives.” Pete Seeger lived.

            “Irene goodnight

              Irene goodnight
              Goodnight Irene
              Goodnight Irene
              I’ll see you in my dreams."

           

Living with Dopes

Part 1 “Caught Smoking by the Urinal”

            Guys inside are getting dumber. I know, to get caught up in most of the stuff we do requires a certain level of dumbness, me included. After all, how can you ever think you won’t get caught? But, in my four plus years here I’ve noticed a change. When I first got here most of the 1200 or so men had been down for a good amount of time. Re-entry didn’t exist, just transitioning out. Oh, there were knuckleheads – prison is synonymous with knuckleheads. But, guys knew how to act. You didn’t act like a dope, you didn’t disrespect your neighbor or his space, and you didn’t bring heat on the building.

            But “re-entry” has brought a new breed of inmate, guys who cycle in and out, who have drug and alcohol problems. They’re young, dumb (uneducated, unskilled, and unmotivated), and loud. I was a fan of the AMC show “Breaking Bad.” Let me tell you, their portrayal of meth heads was accurate. Crack addicts, meth heads, heroin junkies, “dippers” (weed roll ups dipped in formaldehyde). I see them every day. It’s like living in the land of the walking dead. You think you’d get used to it and the resulting fights when a long-term inmate gets tired of the dirt and noise, and then you see two meth heads arcing a spark off the urinal …

            That’s right, arcing a spark off the urinal. We don’t have matches or lighters – usually – in here. Instead, you get two batteries, a razor blade, and the top of the urinal. The batteries “arc” off the razor and urinal cap and viola, a rolled up cigarette is lit! So, three guys huddle over a dirty urinal and they smoke this nasty smelling homemade cigarette, and the bathroom stinks, and the officers smell it, and the dopes get locked and lose their good time, and then they bitch because their eighteen month sentence (with good time) is now twenty months.

            Do they learn? No. I’ve seen dozens of these guys leave and come back to prison within six months after leaving. It’s what keeps the system running. And what of their self-respect? How does a man hunch himself over a foul urinal because his addict mentality won’t let him see how undignified he’s become?

            If it wasn’t so tragic it would be hysterical. It’s drugs, and ignorance, and a dozen other social problems and it’s lining the pockets of the prison-industrial complex while destroying families, and neighborhoods, and nations. It’s just a little spark arced off a urinal but it says so much more about this place …

 Part II “Leave the Officers Alone”
            There was a time in prison when you wouldn’t dare flirt with a female officer. Being friendly with officers was against the code. Violate the code and you were fair game. Those days are gone at this level. Here, dozens of young inmates, mostly African-American, almost all in on sex charges, spend hours talking to the female officers.

            Sex crimes. Here’s what I’ve learned the last five years: inmates tell you they hate sex offenders, but race trumps crime. Hundreds of men here are doing time for rape and sexual battery. Hundreds more are in on child porn charges. Daily conversations take place about “the white perv in bed 8” who is facing civil commitment. Nothing is said about the young black guy doing ten years for slipping a date rape drug to a girl and “takin it.”

            There’s a double-standard in here. I had a confrontation with an “African” leader about a year ago. He’s a black drug dealer from Baltimore who took a Swahili name, yet he knows nothing about Africa. He approached me when I came to the defense of a thirty-year old white guy who (as a teacher) the population discovered was in for having sex with a fifteen year-old student.

            “I hate snitches and sex offenders” Sankofa told me as he explained why he was urging everyone to shun this guy. I said, “I hate hypocrites.” See Sankofa regularly ran around with five young guys all in on sexual assault charges. And each of those guys would daily shout out to the female officers, “Hey baby!” Or, they’d stand in the dayroom and talk to the officer for thirty minutes. Snitches? Sankofa’s closest friend was a guy who told on his co-defendants to get a reduced sentence.

            No, the issue was race. The one guy was white, the others were black. I hate that as much as I hate those crimes.

            I struggle with dealing with inmates in on sex crimes. They are in my way of thinking sick and predatory and wholly devoid of empathy from me. How do you sexually violate a child? How do you sexually violate a woman? It makes no sense to me. Worse, when I see these guys behaving inappropriately around female officers I get incensed. Many of them are being released soon and their behavior has not changed.

            My friends who’ve done “real” time, hard time at higher security level prisons, tell me black or white this stuff wouldn’t happen up there. In the ruthless world of level 4 and 5 prisons acting like a sexual predator with the women officers lands you in trouble.

            But this is re-entry. And guys act like dopes down here. I don’t think I’ll ever get use to living like this; and I guess that’s a good thing.

 

Isn't It Ironic

“Irony” is defined as an event or result that isn’t expected. As I watched former Governor Robert McDonnell, his ashen faced wife and daughter at his side, speak publicly for the first time about the federal government’s fourteen count indictment against him (and the former first lady-an historic occasion in American political history) I thought about irony. After all, it had been less than five days since McDonnell’s term had ended, since he had the opportunity to give dozens of incarcerated men and women the chance for new beginnings by issuing executive pardons, a power he chose not to use because the time wasn’t “quite right.” How ironic, I thought, that that Governor now faced his own – and his wife’s – legal Waterloo which could deliver the couple years of prison time and millions in fines.

            I take no schadenfreude-type glee in the former Governor’s legal problems. I know only too well the pain and trepidation that comes when the power of the government – whether state or federal – is focused on you. And yet, I am troubled by much of what the Governor is accused of because his is a crime of access and opportunity. So many of the men I’ve met throughout this prison exodus are in for crimes devoid of such wealth and privilege and yet, because of politicians like Governor McDonnell, they continue to languish behind bars with little hope of changing their circumstances upon their release. And yes, I was in the same position as the good Governor.

            Here’s what we know the U.S. Government believes the McDonnell’s did. Like many families, they were having financial trouble. The housing bubble put the squeeze on the first family. Debt service on their fashionable home in Richmond’s west end, the million dollar ski chalet at Winter Green and the $2 million ocean condo at Virginia Beach were squeezing the new Governor and his wife. So, Maureen reached out to a family “friend” who just happened to be a big campaign contributor. Did I mention the friend Mr. Williams, was a former tobacco exec who now headed “Star Industries,” a diet and health supplement company.

            And Williams did what any good friend would – he helped out with cash. The government calls the payments gifts; McDonnell says they were loans (subsequently paid back after news of the federal investigation broke). Funny, but there were no notes indicating any of these monies were loans. But hey, who needs paperwork between friends? I smiled over all this. See, at the height of my embezzlement scheme I left a blank promissory note in a folder with a copy of a $750,000 term life policy payable to my estate. During my initial meeting with my lawyer I told him, “I planned on paying it back … dead or alive.” He just smiled. You see, you can’t make something a loan after the fact.

            The McDonnell’s were in serious financial straits. Their credit cards were maxed; they had children in college and a daughter planning her wedding. And good ol’ Johnny was there. The mortgages – no problem. The credit cards – covered. The wedding reception – let Johnny pay for it. And the financial pressure eased, and the Governor became the darling of the National GOP.

            I have no doubt, as the public now sees the emails from Maureen McDonnell lamenting their money worries that Governor and Mrs. McDonnell never intended to break the law. I get that. I didn’t write that first check to rob my employer blind. I just did it to keep “us” going. I couldn’t risk losing everything I loved, everything I worked so hard to build; so I “borrowed” a few thousand. Funny how a few thousand turned into so much more, and the fear of losing it all, well my actions accelerated the process.

            The McDonnell’s found financial stability and Johnny was still there to “help out.” Why shouldn’t Maureen fly first-class to New York and Miami on shopping trips? Why shouldn’t Bob get a Rolex engraved with “71^st Governor of Virginia?” After all, they had done so much for the Commonwealth. Man, I’ve been there. I was traveling every six to eight weeks to New York, Vegas, and Atlantic City. I always flew first-class and I never went alone. There was my entourage, anywhere from three to eight other people who’d go with me, fly first class (paying me for “coach” fare – I took care of the upgrades), eat expensive meals, and stay in luxury hotel suites.

            And I justified it all – every check I wrote, every lie I told – because I was a “good guy,” I didn’t cheat on my wife, I was a good provider and role model for our sons, I did volunteer work , devoted countless hours to my church, and was a top employee at work. So what if I was “borrowing” (sounds so much nicer, “borrowing” rather than stealing. After all, I kept detailed records so I could pay it all back) thousands from work?

            And when I hear Governor McDonnell defend himself and claim everything was legit and his friend Johnny received no special access I shake my head. That’s the words of a man living in denial. He can’t believe that when he’s alone and looks at himself in the mirror. See, that’s when you’re alone and you realize all those rationalizations you’ve been uttering are bullshit. You realize you’re dirty and corrupt and all the good you do won’t clean that stain.

            I watched the former Governor and I wanted him to man up. Take responsibility, show remorse and contrition and regain his self-respect. He’s not there yet. Even worse, he’s leaving his wife in this as well.

            Wives and your failures … Bob, Bob, Bob, listen to what I’m about to write. You can’t let Mrs. McDonnell be involved in this. Even if you have to take a plea, do it. Yeah, the Feds offered to drop the Mrs. from the case in exchange for one felony plea. Don’t let your wife go to trial; don’t risk her conviction. You – and you alone – have to wear this. I speak from personal experience …

            So, it’s two weeks after my arrest and I’m in the Henrico Jail having been denied bond – “a flight risk” the Commonwealth says. “Defendant has assets and can flee the jurisdiction.” I honestly hadn’t thought about leaving. Ending it all was more on my mind. I’m in the jail and I’m falling apart. I’d received three or four letters from my better half at this point telling me, in no particular order 1. We’re through 2. I will never see her again 3. She’s praying I die. And, the police listened in on a conversation the two of us had in which she repeatedly asked me, “where’s the money?” I said “Honey, there isn’t any money. It’s been spent and we can’t talk about it on the phone.” Her response, “Don’t you ever call me honey!”

            My lawyer came to see me and told me the company had no idea how I got away with this. They couldn’t tell if it was one million or four million. “They need your cooperation, but no plea deal. They want a long sentence.” And that was when I did it. I told my lawyer the deal: they leave my wife and sons alone and let my sign over certain assets to her (house, personal effects, boys’ college funds, cash and a few accounts) and I’ll assist with the accounting and plead guilty to any charges presented.

            It was straight-forward and easily understood. And then, I was transported to a meeting at the Goochland Courthouse. The investigating detective, the company CEO, and a half-dozen lawyers representing my employer sat around a table with me, handcuffed and shackled and in a faded jail jumper. The “senior” lawyer tried to throw his weight around: “Tell us everything, Mr. B or we will go after Mrs. B. All the money that went her way, how didn’t she know?

            There are rare moments in one’s life when you say “fuck it,” when you’re tired and discouraged, and you want to quit, but self-respect won’t let you. In that instant, when that pompous lawyer tried to flex I realized I – and I alone – was responsible for everything that was happening. I slammed my cuffed hands down on the table with a thud that startled everyone in the room. My face grew crimson and I barked out as I rose to my feet, “You say anything about my wife or my sons, you make any attempt to go after them or any friend or relative and I will use every breath I have to tear your fucking case and company apart!” (Yes, I have a gift for profanity when needed).

            There wasn’t a sound in the room until the company CEO gently said, “Let’s take a break,” and everyone left the room but my attorney and me. And my lawyer looked at me and smiled and said, “You just wrapped up the case. I’ve never seen anything like that.” He was right. When they returned, we had a deal. I signed over the listed assets to her and they presented me with a six count indictment; and, four weeks later, I plead guilty just like I said I would. For the first time in years I felt like I’d done the right thing …

            The right thing Governor McDonnell; now is the time to do the right thing. Fuck your reputation, and your political future, and the money you could have made joining some well-connected law firm or lobbyist. Get your self-respect and your dignity back. And if you lose your law license, and your property, and your wife you man up and decide you’ll fight your way back. In chapter 17 of the Gospel of Matthew there is a wonderful question attributed to Jesus. “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?” What indeed.

            Governor, you know what you’ve done. Put this behind you. It isn’t easy, but it’s the only way to regain your dignity and self-respect. There are worse things than a felony conviction; there are worse things than prison. I speak from personal experience when I tell you it’s time to do the right thing. It wasn’t easy, but it made all the difference.